Chapter Thirty-­Nine

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Tobias

B ursting through the glass door, I manage to catch sight of Greg just as he pulls out, his window down, his eyes fixed on me, and this time, there's a dare in them, along with the smug fucking twist of lips. "See you at home, birdie ."

In a second flat, I have my gun trained on him, but he floors his Beamer, and I curse as I'm forced to give chase. Frantically dialing while I turn the ignition, I get no answer as panic like I've never experienced races through me.

Ditching the phone to concentrate, I manage to catch sight of Greg's tail and downshift, gunning it to give it everything under the hood. It's when I get stuck behind an old Civic and Greg slips just out of sight that I lose it, veering off the road and honking the horn in warning before tearing through the tread to catch up with him. Scanning mentally through the routes I've taken in the past few months, I know there's no shortcut that will get me there faster. It's when he makes the few turns toward Cecelia's house that dread engulfs me fully, and I go full-on road rage. Mr. Handsome will die tonight, this much I know. No matter my fate, he will die.

And I hadn't seen it.

Has he been acting alone? And what is his connection, if any, to the French fuck I just put on a plane?

I replay the conversation we had the day we met .

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Am I that obvious? I've been here every day this week."

"That so?"

He nods, before lifting his cup in salute. "Greg."

"Tobias."

"That a French accent? You sure are a long way from home."

"Fuck!" Heart pounding, hope plummeting, I do my best to catch up with Greg, but he's too far ahead—in every way that counts. I blow out Dom's engine making good time, but it's not enough. By the time he's on Cecelia's road, he's got me by six car lengths.

"Please, be okay, Trésor, goddamnit!" I lift my phone to see nothing, not a single message from any bird or her, as more fear slams into me. What I do know is that I'm driving straight into a trap, and I have no fucking choice. If they've taken her somewhere remote to deal with me, I have no fucking chance of saving her. But I could see it in Greg's eyes: he's a monster of a different breed; he's hungry, and he wants this to hurt. And he knows she's the way. "Be here, baby, please be here, God, please not again, not again!"

The sun has fully set by the time Greg speeds into her long driveway, and my stomach dips when I see the house is completely dark. The streetlight at the end of her yard isn't enough to see what's ahead or who, but mild relief covers me when I see her Audi.

Odds are she's breathing.

Please God, this one thing I'll ask of you. One thing. Nothing more.

Forgoing the driveway, which the piece of shit decides to use, I tear through her trees to make up time, shredding her yard. I slam to a stop just feet away from her door, effectively pinning him just past the entrance as his first shot hits the passenger side of the windshield. Confusion mars his features as a shallow hole appears but doesn't puncture, and I grin back at him because my brother wasn't a fucking idiot.

"Bulletproof glass, motherfucker."

I already know by the pitch black of the house and radio silence, Greg isn't working alone. Somehow, he's managed to goad my birds away or distract them at the very least. My only hope is that Tyler is watching and can see the fucking spectacle I'm making with Dom's car. And from the way Greg just baited me, it seems he wants me for himself. He hasn't slipped into the house yet for cover, which tells me a lot. And he's either a horrible shot, or he's just playing with me.

Bring it on, bitch.

Camaro idling, I open both doors and glance over the dash to see his eyes darting between them to see which route I'll exit. Instead, I press in the clutch, put the car in reverse, and floor the gas. The car whips into motion, effectively shutting the passenger door as I rotate fully, facing him to get a clear shot. He lunges over the hood as I unload a clip to get him away from the front door. I can't afford to take him out yet. I gun the gas, correcting the wheel as he scurries to the side of the house and speed toward the gate, again pinning him. He turns back and shoots on instinct, which has me chuckling until he jumps on the hood like some kind of fucking commando and begins raining bullets on the windshield, the holes he's putting in clouding my vision.

Our eyes meet just above his last shot as he reaches for a new clip from his slacks as I roll down my window. "You've got a horrible fucking tailor."

Before I can position my hand enough to get a shot off to immobilize him, he's on top of the car, his footsteps above me. With no choice, and time running short, I jump out, Glock upturned just as his tasseled loafer lands square in my jaw.

And as the black spots fade, I realize fast that someone has sent a JCPenney-dressed Jackie-fucking-Chan-reject for me in small town Virginia.

My mind mercifully slows then, and tunnel vision kicks in as he practically dances off the trunk while I visually weigh him up, and he does the same, his smirk still in place.

This motherfucker thinks he can take me.

I discard one of my Glocks a few feet away, and he does the same, then I toss the other. I know I made the right call when he shakes out his hands in preparation.

Just as I'm tempted to play along and give him the fucking Bruce Lee come-hither wave, he lunges for me, and I slam an elbow into his stomach, robbing him of breath. The blow lifts his body, throwing him back enough for me to land another in his gut and one below the belt that has him gasping for God.

He was expecting a valiant fight, an opener by way of a fist to dodge.

He grips his balls, his face twisted in pain as I move in.

"You went there first, motherfucker. Where is she?"

I know his type, entitled from an early age, just like the fucking brats who made fun of my accent when I landed myself in the Triple Falls school playground—spoiled, threatened by what they don't know. The type that would rather give a verbal or physical beatdown than hold out a hand to help someone new. I've met very few of the type of man who would. Greg is the type of man Preston would have become if he didn't have a good heart and decent soul. But I guess I should be thankful for fuckers like these. Because of them and often being outnumbered, I learned quickly how to street fight—rule-free, relentless, and fucking dirty.

He regroups too quickly and lifts his chin.

"It's just you and me out here, birdman ." He flexes his fingers, and I rush him. He manages to get another punch in before I grip him by the collar and deliver a head butt so brutal he damn near collapses on me, blood gushing from his nose as his legs give out.

With a growl of frustration, he recovers, darting his eyes to the ground for a gun he's not getting back.

"That was your only chance, bitch, and you lost it." Knowing he's about to tap into his reserves, I rain down my fists in his face. The more time I deal with this fucking piece of shit, the more time I lose getting to her. His uppercut narrowly misses me, and that's when I go feral, letting my rage take over temporarily until he gasps and gurgles beneath me. I have to force myself to stop, still unsure of what or who waits inside.

The piece of shit sputtering beneath me is my only chance of knowing what I'm up against. Scanning the yard for the birds who should have already fucking been here, a genuine fear sets in .

Where the fuck are they? Backup should be here by now.

There's not a single sign of anyone, not even the drones. Wracking my brain, I know I'm fucked because I left my cell in the car. I have no way of getting word out or knowing who's coming and when.

Greg whimpers beneath me as I tuck his gun in the back of my jeans beneath my hoodie and retrieve my Glocks.

He begins to fade out as I glare down at him. "No, no." I slap at his face, and when he doesn't rouse, I press my finger into his destroyed nose. A shriek of pain leaves him as he comes to, groaning in agony as I drag him toward the rain drain where I have another gun and some extra clips. I stash them where I can fit them in both my jeans and hoodie.

"Who's inside, Greg?"

Greg coughs and sputters beneath me as I press into his nose again, digging around the busted cartilage through the massive gash with my thumb. He screams, and I cover his mouth, knowing those inside heard it.

"I'm only going to ask one more time, dickhead."

An outraged noise comes from his throat, something that sounds close to a laugh, just before I feel the metal in the back of my head.

Fuck.

In seconds, I'm gripped by two shadows after my Glocks are stripped from my hands, and we're both lifted from the ground and ushered inside. The silence once we get through the front door has my heart clanging against my ribs. If she's gone already, I can't feel it. She has to be here.

Not knowing is killing me, and I resist the urge to call out to her to show the extent of what she means to me, to hide the fear in my voice. It's when the hairs on the back of my neck begin to lift that I know, I just fucking know, I've been bested.

It's confirmed a second later when Antoine's voice sounds from the living room.

"How long are you going to make me wait, Ezekiel?"